by Audrey Bell
Maybe that’s what appeals to me so much. He reminds me of who I used to be, instead of who I am now: a girl always glancing over her shoulder, seeing what the mountain looks like, wondering if they’ve set off enough dynamite, wondering if clouds are rolling in, waiting for the next terrible thing to happen.
He turns back to look at me, still smiling. “Hey, so can I ask you a favor?”
“Yeah.”
“Would you come to this dinner thing with me?”
I raise my eyebrow. “I told my dad I was bringing a date,” he says. “But it doesn’t have to be a date. I mean, I’m going to tell him you’re my date…” He cocks his head. “I’m not explaining this very well. I’m sponsored by Oakley, and they’re doing this benefit for some charity—um, Operation Smile—anyways, they asked me and my dad to go and I told my dad I was bringing Laurel…”
“Do I have to pretend my name’s Laurel?”
“No,” he smiles. “I doubt he remembers that part of it anyways.”
“When is it?”
“Tomorrow. In Salt Lake City. They’ll take us there and everything. You don’t have to do anything except wear a dress,” he bites his lip. “I was going to go alone, but—you know, I ran into you and, it just seems…seems like a good idea. For me anyways. I don’t know if it seems like a good idea for you.”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be your fake date.”
He smiles. “I mean, it can be a real date, too…”
“You can’t ask me on a fake date, just to see if I’ll say yes, and then change it to a real date.”
“Fake date it is.”
I bite my lip. “Let’s not tell anyone though.”
“Why?” he looks at me.
“Danny’s friends…my friends…”
“Laurel,” he adds.
“Your friends.”
“No, just Laurel. My friends would like you,” He jumps to his feet. “It’s not going to be fun.” I watch him brace himself on his heels, so he doesn’t careen forward down the mountain. “So, if you were expecting fun, let me assure you, this is not going to be it.”
“Fabulous.”
“Everyone is going to be a total asshole.”
“I can handle it.”
He grins. He smiles. “I guess we’ll see about that, Pip.” He dips his shoulder and disappears down the hill. I follow him fast, breathless—the mountain’s empty, it’s almost like skiing backcountry.
I chase him—catch him, and pass him, tearing away through the deep powder. When I turn, he’s not chasing me. He’s taking his time, in long loping curves down the mountain, leaning so he’s nearly parallel with the slope.
He hits a mogul and lets himself whirl like a spinning top, landing with a thump, coming to a stop by me.
He nudges me with his shoulder. “Speedy.”
“What?”
“That’s what I’m calling you, Speedy.”
“You’re not very good at coming up with nicknames.”
“This is true. I’m not. I never went to college, so I have a terrible vocabulary.”
He keeps on going, graceful long lines, and tricks all the way down. I take a long jump, just to prove I can land it, and he whoops behind me.
By the time we get down the mountain, the sun has started to set, and I can see the appeal of it—the deserted slopes, the pink sky, how you feel so much closer to everything up there.
Chapter Twelve
I don’t even know which dress I want to wear, so my dad overnights me the three acceptable ones that I still own. I wish I had told Lottie I was going on a fake date with Hunter. Someone who could at least take a look at what I was wearing and put me a little at ease.
I blow-dry my hair and do my own makeup, and then stare at the three dresses apprehensively. What the hell am I going to do about this?
Courtney, I think. I’m an idiot. How did I not think of Courtney sooner?
“Hey, it’s been forever,” Court says, when I call her. She sounds relieved to hear from me and I feel a rush of guilt for being so difficult to get in touch with over the past few weeks. “What’s up?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
“Okay. I’m going on a fake date.”
“What the hell is that?” she laughs.
“Ugh. Long story.”
“With a guy?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you going on a fake date…”
“I kind of owe him a favor…”
“So, you’re working for an escort service out in Utah? I knew you weren’t skiing.”
“I’m going on a fake date to a benefit thing with a snowboarder who just broke up with his girlfriend who asked me if I’d pretend to be his date so he didn’t have to tell his dad that he broke up with another girlfriend…or something like that,” I cringe as the words come out in a flood. It sounds so much crazier when I say it out loud.
“Well, he sounds like a real Prince Charming,” I can hear her excited smile. “Is he hot?”
“Yes.” I say.
“Does he have a name?”
“Hunter.”
“Good name,” she says. “So, what’s the problem?”
“What to wear?”
She snorts. “Video chat me, bitch.”
“Right. Right. Duh.”
I flip open my computer screen to see Trevor staring at me.
“Ew, half-naked girl. Courtney,” he screeches.
I duck out of my camera’s view. “COURTNEY!”
“What?” she squawks. “Trevor, where did she go?”
“She was in a bra. Do you two always video chat naked? Courtney, are you a lesbian?”
I pull on a t-shirt, huffily. “Courtney.”
“I thought you’d want to say hi. And that you would have clothing on.”
“Fine. Clothes on.” I scowl. “You didn’t tell me Trevor was there.”
“Hey, Pip,” Trevor says. “The shirt’s a good look. I approve. I think no shirt on a fake date just screams desperate whore.”
“Thanks. So which one?”
I hold up the two dresses—they’re both simple. One’s red, one’s black—knee length, both fit me the same way.
“Red.”
“I feel like it made me look pale.”
“If you want to impress him, wear red,” she says flatly. “No question.”
I nod. “Hold on. I’m going to try it on.”
I slip away from the computer and slide into the dress and then I back away and try on my basic, black pumps.
“Pretty! Turn.”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Trevor said, nodding his approval. “I’m almost attracted to you right now.”
I turn around and smile. “Are you sure? I’m already late.”
“Positive.”
“Okay, thanks. You’re the best.”
I walk over to the screen to close it and Courtney frowns. “Aw, you have to go already?”
“Yeah, I’m like super-late.”
“Well, call me,” she says. She hesitates. “It’s been ages.”
“I know,” I inhale. “I really—I swear. I’ve been a shitty friend. I will call you. Both of you. But I have to go now.”
“Love you,” they both shout.
I take a deep breath when they’ve disappeared from the screen—feeling torn in a lot of different directions. It was like this sometimes in the first days after the avalanche. Whenever I started feeling anything other than Danny and Ryan being dead, I would be hit with a wave of guilt.
These waves are smaller, but they feel like they’re multiplying—my friends in Colorado, Lottie’s career, my dad worrying about me, and Hunter. I don’t know what to think of Hunter at all. All I know is that I do think of him, and his soft hair and his perfect eyes and his husky laugh way too frequently. And I feel guilty about that, too.
I look in the mirror and pull on my coat. It’s a black shell, with a ski lift ticket hanging off of it. It looks stupid, but it’s all I’ve go
t. And not wearing a coat would be even more stupid than wearing this one.
Spaz.
I run my fingers through my hair and smile.
You look fine. Stop freaking out.
Spaz.
Grr…shut up.
I dash out of the door before the part of my brain that hates everything I do makes me change into sweatpants and call Hunter saying I’m sick.
I hesitate at his hotel doorway. Room 811—two floors up from me. And then I knock.
“One sec,” he shouts through to door.
He opens the door shirtless, with a cell phone to his ear, glances at me distractedly, and then waves me in. He turns back to the balcony. “Yeah, uh-huh.”
So much for the red getting his attention. I feel like a pizza delivery girl waiting to get her tip, for all the attention he’s paying me.
He certainly has my undivided focus. I’m not sure if I’m more impressed by the muscles rippling across his back or the monstrous size of his room.
His room is not a room at all. It’s a two-story apartment with an awesome kitchen and a Jacuzzi. Even the mountains look nicer from his windows.
I need to file a complaint with the USSA. Pronto.
“Yeah, well, Doug, that’s not going to happen,” he says in a clipped voice. I turn my attention back to Hunter’s back, which sadly begins shouldering into a pressed, white shirt. “No, I just said, it’s not going to happen…yeah, well, sorry to disappoint you, but my answer is still no,” he growls. He ends the call with a huff and tosses the phone on his bed and turns.
“Sorry about…” he smiles, stopping the apology and looking me over. “Whoa. You look good, Speedy.”
“Thanks.”
He walks towards me, buttoning his shirt up, a little smile on his face. “Yeah, you look really good. This is impressive. I almost like this as much as the hat.” I’m sad to see his abs go, but at least he’s talking to me.
“Not turtle-like enough for you?”
He grins. “Turtles are overrated.”
I flush. He saunters over to the refrigerator and pulls it open. “Gin and tonic, right?”
I look at him. “Yeah, good memory.”
“Good memory is right,” he says. He rolls up his sleeves and mixes a drink quickly, getting himself a beer. “This is an old man drink.”
“Well, I like it.”
“Do you have a secret life as a fifty year old retiree? Are you an avid golfer on the side?
“Just in my spare time.”
“Mm…that must be hard for you, torn between golf and downhill skiing.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
He laughs. “So, I have a serious question.” He puts the drink in my hands and our fingers brush. He lets his hand linger for a second and I take my time pulling the drink back to me.
“Shoot.”
“Can you tie a bowtie?”
“Um…” I cock my head. “Yeah, no.”
“Mmm…you good at watching YouTube videos?”
“Is that a skill?”
“No, but—here. Grab my laptop a sec.”
I reach for his laptop and open it. “What’s your password?”
“Ugh…let me type it in.”
He grabs the computer screen.
“Secrets, secrets,” I tease.
“Yeah, you do not want to see the movie I watched last night. Trust me,” he says darkly.
“Ew.”
“Yeah, well. The nearest city is full of Mormons. Laurel broke up with me. You made it very clear you didn’t want to go home with me. And I have needs.”
“I do not need to hear about your needs. And you said you wanted to play checkers…”
“Fine. Would you rather watch Girls Gone…”
“Stop it, stop it, stop…I don’t want to watch Girls Gone anything.”
“See, I told you. You don’t want to see this shit. I’m just protecting you,” he sighs, typing away at his computer screen. “Okay, youtube, youtube, youtube, bowties, bowties--how to tie…boom.”
He pulls up a video of a bespectacled teenager walking through the steps of tying a bowtie. “I have watched this goddamn video nine times already. So, if you can figure it out, I would be grateful. Otherwise, I’m not wearing a fucking bowtie.”
“Maybe Joe knows,” I say.
“Joe has never won a tuxedo in his life.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, but I have a learning disability.”
“Bowtie Deficit Disorder?”
“Something like that.”
I frown and he hits play. We both cock our heads, watching in confusion at the elaborate steps.
“And there you go!” the teenager announces.
Hunter looks at me. “Did you get that?”
“I feel like that wasn’t a how-to video. That was just a guy tying a bowtie.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Speedy, do you have a better methodology?”
“Flip your collar up.” I suggest.
He fumbles with the collar. “Here,” I say. I step in front of him and turn the collar up, my knuckles brushing his neck.
“Oh, so, now you’re the expert,” he says softly and seriously.
I stand facing him, my hands light on his collar. He looks right up at me, or at my cleavage, it’s difficult to tell which. I drape the black silk tie around his neck.
It’s impossible to do this without touch him. My knees brush his leg, my fingers scrape his five o’clock shadow, and a strand of my hair falls forward, brushing his wrist.
“You know,” he says softly. “Girls wouldn’t put up with having shit tied around the neck for a second.”
“What do you think necklaces are?”
“Jewelry. This is a modified noose.”
I smile at him and cross the ends of the tie. I play the video again and I figure it out, thick-fingered but determined. For some reason, I badly want to be able to do this tiny favor for him and when I finally pull the ends into a bow, I can’t help but smile proudly.
“Done.”
He takes a long sip of his beer, eyes on me, while I fold his collar down. He finishes it and drops his hands onto my wrists. He rubs his thumbs back and fourth against my forearms and blinks his thick-lashed, apple green eyes.
“Thanks,” he whispers, softly and urgently.
“No problem,” I say back. My voice shakes a little. He leans slightly forward, and I bend one knee, about to press into him, and then Danny’s face slashes through my brain like a sharp knife.
I smile, stepping aside, brushing away, breaking the contact before I do something stupid. He clears his throat, like he wasn’t intending to kiss me, and stands up to inspect the bowtie in the mirror.
I set my glass down on the counter. He clears his voice from behind me. “Hey, this looks pretty good, Speedy.”
“Yeah, I’m proud of that. My one accomplishment of the day,” I say.
“Let me get you another drink,” he says, coming behind me. He sets a hand on my lower back, totally unnecessarily, but I want the contact. It’s been so long since anyone has touched me like that. He smiles. “You cool?”
I nod. “Completely.”
“Good.” He grins. “More gin?”
“Please.”
“Here we go. I like this drink. It’s easy to make and I get to feel like I’m a pro bartender,” he says, pouring the gin into the tumbler, adding ice and lime. “All I need or those tiny little straws.” He spins it on the counter over to me.
“Maybe next time I’ll ask for a Cosmo.”
“Yeah, well, that might be a little ambitious…” he scoops his phone off the bed and glances at it. “We actually need to get going soon. You ready?”
“Yeah, this is about as good as it’s going to get.”
“Wasn’t complaining.” He slides on his jacket. I could definitely get used to looking at Hunter in a tuxedo. Definitely.
I pulled on my shell and he slid on an overcoat. I felt like an idiot.
“That’s a g
ood look on you.”
“What? A ski coat and a dress?”
“I don’t know. I just like it,” he smiles. “You look like you’re going to prom or something.”
“Oh, so you’re into high school girls?”
“Shut up.”
We check the hallways for people and make a big deal of sneaking over to the elevators and down to the lobby. Outside, in the chilly air, a chauffeured SUV awaits us.
“You know, things would be a lot easier if you were so ashamed of being seen with me,” Hunter says, watching me as I crane my head before I get into the car with him.
I smile. “Well, maybe I would have been more accommodating if you hadn’t asked me on a fake date.”
“Mr. Dawson?”
“That’s me,” Hunter says cheerfully.
Hunter sticks his tongue out at me, for no real reason, as the car pulls out of the lot, and onto the country highway. I bite back a laugh, feeling like I have to behave—in such a grown-up car going to such a grown-up event.
He grabs my hand impulsively when we’re halfway there.
I look at him—a question in my eyes. Why are you touching me? He just looks right back at me, playing with my fingers, less romantically than jocularly.
“So, I should probably warn you in advance, my dad can be a dick.”
“Yeah?”
He nods. “I don’t know if he will be. Sometimes, he’s fine. I’m not trying to, like, get into my family situation, but don’t take it personally if he’s a douchebag to you.”
“Got it.”
“Cool….oh, and he probably has a new girlfriend. Scratch that. He definitely has a new girlfriend. The last one moved back to Brazil or some shit.”
He lets go of my hand. “He skis though. You have that in common.”
We pull up to the red carpet. The convention center has a discreet entrance, with just a handful of photographers and no screaming crowds.
“Don’t freak out.”
“I’m not freaking out.”
“Hokay. Well,” he rolls his eyes. “Come on then.”
He grabs my hand. My heart flutters. Fake date, I remind myself. This is a fake date. It doesn’t matter if anyone takes a picture.
I can’t refuse to take a picture with Hunter. His sponsor organized this party and he’s one of the celebrity guests. I don’t put up a fuss. I almost enjoy myself when Hunter snakes a hand around my waist and holds me tight. I like the feel of it. I wish I didn’t. This would be so much easier if I didn’t have a crush and we were just best friends. But I do have a crush. I like him.
